


Anniversary

by TheBaronTrost



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged Up, its cute i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBaronTrost/pseuds/TheBaronTrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The years have not been kind to Jean Kirstein. After the Battle for Trost, he's only ever thought of one thing for his whole life - filled with sadness and regret.<br/>He's sat in care, unable to talk or walk, and all he can think about is Marco.</p><p>(This is a wee bit soppy but I love this pairing, as you can probably tell by my works. This may be a bit different.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

The sky was a flurry of colour; blues, purples and pinks, and they all danced together as the sun was rising to greet the new day. The ailing, grey haired man was watching it from his bed, lying rigid and stiff. He tried to remember the last time he stood at the window, breathing the clean air, but he could not. He tried to remember the last time he smiled at the beautiful sunrise, again he could not.

It was 6am, the nurses quietly checking up on the patients, making sure everyone was still there - and that they hadn’t slipped away in the night. The same nurse would always notice him awake, offering a sweetly sounding whisper of “Good morning, Mr Kirstein.” which he would always return with a simple nod, and a lifting of his hand. He wasn’t miserable, he was sad. He’d been sad for years, decades even. The only escape from that feeling was in the oddly blissful dreams he’d have every now and then, about what his life could - no, should have been. They came at the most unexpected of times, with an escape from a reality that was too cruel, too ruthless, to ever give him a chance at a moderately cheerful life. The man was stuck in a feeling that he was thrown into far too young, far too innocent. He never stood a chance.

The man had hoped to be dead long ago. He was in the military for a long time, back when there was a need for it, back when savage creatures preyed on innocents, and mankind needed protecting. Not a day passed when he remembered that day; the day when his chance of a regular, happy, normal life had died. Died along with **_him_**. Every day the pangs of heartbreak sending shivers down his spine, leaving him wondering how his heart even still worked, and also wishing that it didn’t.

He didn’t get to say goodbye. He should have said goodbye just in case. He should have told him how he felt. Shivers, constantly as he thought of the boy who had given him hope in such bleak and desolate times. The boy who had shown him kindness when others had not. It was devastating, and he didn’t know how to turn the thoughts off, and he could no longer speak to let him pain out. He could no longer hunt the beasts that had ripped his best friend from his life, he could never find solace in knowing that they were paying for killing his one and only friend. But it was more than that, Jean loved him, but he never had the courage to tell the boy - even if it was obvious that he loved him back.

It was unusual this morning because he began to cry, something which he usually reserved when his family would visit, until his mind caught up with his body and realised what day it was. Silently he wept, still staring out at the sky, endless streams of tears running down the side of his cheeks, slowing at every wrinkle, every scar, triggered by the thought of how much Marco would have loved to have seen this sky. The man was crying because his friend was no longer there to make a cheesy comment about the colours, the clouds, or any of the other patients that simply grumbled through their day, waiting for their final moments to come, and for them to be finally removed from the care of these nurses, too stretched out to show that much compassion to them.

Several hours passed, he did not eat, he did not drink, nor did he take any of his medication that day. He sat, in silence, wishing that someone would come and stop him from thinking about that day, the day Marco died. Stop his body from shivering in pain. When he finally turned from the window, he found a figure, tall and young standing next to his bed. The faint splattering of freckles gave the him away, with his thin brown hair parted in the middle. His ridiculous grin looking down at the man, as he lay wide-eyed, and breathless. Jean looked at him, thinking about how beautiful he was, how he had of wished to see this man, instead of wasting his life alone. The man studied his stature, receiving flashes of fond memories from decades ago, from when he was younger, and from when they were both alive. Marco held out his hand, still smiling in his stunningly cheesy grin, and nodded to the man. “It’s time to go.”  


The nurses and the doctors tried their best to prevent it, but Jean died, on the 70th Anniversary of the Battle for Trost, the day he had found _half_ of his _only_ friend slouched against that street edge. Jean’s passing was reported in the news, the last surviving member of the infamous Recon Corps. Many people chattered about how sad it was that he had passed, how sad it was that the last member was now gone. Jean looked down on them knowing the truth. He’d died, thanks to the visit from the only person he ever cared about, without feeling that endless stabbing of heartbreak. He may have even had the faint trace of a smile on his face, knowing he would finally get to see Marco once again.


End file.
